


Darkness and Stone

by apple_pi



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Hobbits, LOTR
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-03
Updated: 2009-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 04:06:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_pi/pseuds/apple_pi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The darkness of Moria leads Sam and Merry to share confidences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darkness and Stone

I can't sleep. Or have I slept already? Impossible to tell. Night never ends here, there is only walking and not-walking. This is not-walking, so why are my eyes open? (At least, I think they're open; I run my hands blindly over my face, and yes, they are.)

A noise. Some small sound, not the faint breathing of my companions, or the pacing of whoever is on watch. I roll over on the hard stone floor and very dim, very far away I can see a small orange glow, the coal within Gandalf's pipe - it is he on watch, I remember - but it sheds no light, and the sound I heard was not the scrape of a match or the click of flint and steel.

It comes again, and this time I recognize it: a sob.

My first thought is that Pippin is weeping. But Pippin is right beside me, the only sound from him the steady in-and-out of slumber. On the other side of him is Frodo, and I don't think it was him; beyond Frodo there's only Sam, then a long stretch of emptiness, for the others bedded down some way from this cozy little nook, it being too small for them.

Sam.

I sit up and push off my blankets, then crawl down past Pippin and Frodo's legs and up again to Sam. I cannot see him, but his breath comes quick and ragged and I reach tentatively for the place I think his shoulder should be. "Sam?" I whisper. He does not reply, and he does not move beneath my hand. I hitch myself forward and lean over him. "Sam, wake up." I think he must be having a nightmare. I hear him murmur to himself, his voice becoming louder, and I cast an anxious glance over my shoulder toward Frodo (a useless exercise, of course, since I cannot actually _see_ Frodo), and shake him, just a little. "Sam, please wake up - it's just a dream."

Two things happen simultaneously: Sam sits bolt upright and smacks my chin so hard with his head I see stars despite the fact that we are buried beneath at least a mile of dirt; and I clap my hand over his mouth to stifle his yell.

"It's me, Sam, it's Merry," I hiss, blinking rapidly and shaking my head to clear it, while trying to keep out of the way of his flailing (and quite sturdy) arms.

"Mr. Merry!" he gasps into my hand, and I release him and sit back on my heels, rubbing my jaw.

"You were having a nightmare, Sam," I whisper. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, bollocks," he whispers, and to my surprise (and, I admit it, mortification), begins to cry.

I am struck dumb by this, and for a breath I freeze in place. I have known Sam all my life - quick humor, steady dependability, shy and bold and unshakably honest - yet I did not know him well at all until we set off from Crickhollow, nearly four months ago now.

We'd played roopie often enough before then, enjoyed a pipe together on the grass outside Bag End, tried to drink one another under the table (he succeeded, I never did); but it wasn't until we were thrown together by our love of Frodo that I really felt I knew him.

Yet here I am, confronted by a weeping Sam, and I was wrong, I don't know him at all, for I've never seen Sam cry more than a few hastily brushed-away tears and I have no idea what to do. If Sam has had nightmares before this, I never knew.

I put one hand hesitantly upon his shoulder and he topples sideways into me. I wrap my arms around him, since that is what I would do for Pippin or Frodo, and let him cry himself out. He muffles his sobs in my shirt and his hands twist in the material; he seems, like me, to think it important to stay quiet - if for no other reason than to let Frodo have his sleep.

After a while the crying loses its intensity, and Sam stiffens in my arms. I loosen my hold and feel him sit up and away from me. He is still sniffling, and hiccuping just slightly, fighting to steady his breathing.

"All right there, Sam?" I say, quite inadequately.

"Aye, Mr. Merry - I'm sorry, so sorry." His voice is hoarse, low enough not to wake the others. I can practically feel the heat radiating from the blush I know is there, reddening his face like the sunrise.

I move forward and rest one hand on his back. "Sorry for what? You've done nothing wrong, only had a bad dream - as we all do."

It's true, too. I don't know if the Men or Dwarf or Wizard have bad dreams, and I cannot imagine that our Elf does, but certainly I have had a few nightmares on this nightmare journey, as have Frodo and Pippin.

"Can you sleep again?" I ask him, rubbing circles on his back.

I can feel his head shake, even before the spoken negative. "Nay," he says, "not yet. But I'll be fine, Mr. Merry. You go on back to your blankets."

I don't move, except to keep my hand on its steady way round. "Don't be silly, Sam. I'll sit here with you for a while." He sighs, but does not protest, and we sit in the blackness for some time. "What were you dreaming about?" I finally ask. Not from any real desire to know (it can only be awful, and what more do I need to know?), but because I feel he should talk about it, and perhaps purge the dream before he goes back to sleep.

"I don't know, Mr. Merry," he murmurs. "It's this place, like - it gets to me worse than anything." He pauses for a while. "Too much darkness and stone, too much black. Nothing growing, nothing green, no sun..." I can hear sorrow in his voice, and fear.

"Oh, Sam," I say. I rest my hand flat on his back.

"Just silliness, I reckon," Sam says, and I hear thirty-eight years of his Gaffer's criticism speaking.

"It is _not_ silliness," I say, surprised at the anger in my low voice. "This place is awful for us all, except Gimli I suppose, and maybe worst of all for you, and there's naught to be ashamed of, Samwise."

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Merry, but I ain't got no cause to be bellyaching about being here - I made a choice, to follow Mr. Frodo, and I mean to stick by it. Crying don't clean up spilt milk, and yelling in my sleep don't help anyone." He is resigned to this truth, I can hear it in his voice, and shamed as well, and he moves from under my hand and lies down again. "Please go back to bed, Mr. Merry. And thank you for waking me up afore I got too loud."

I don't move, either to touch him or to go back to my bedroll. I sit where I am, in the sightless depths of Moria, and wrap my arms around my knees. "What about Frodo, then?"

There is no stirring beside me, but Sam finally, reluctantly, speaks, his voice muffled by his arms, or blanket, or something. "What about Mr. Frodo?"

"Should he be ashamed when he has nightmares?"

This gets him, all right, as I knew it would, and Sam comes charging (metaphorically at least) to his master's rescue. "Course not!" he exclaims; surprised by his own vehemence, he lowers his voice, but goes on intensely. "Think of what he's going through, and what he carries. If Mr. Frodo has nightmares, it's because he has no choice in what he does, and he's facing worse things than me!" _Or you_ is clear in his voice, but he does not stoop to say it.

"Oh, Sam." I sigh in exasperation. "First of all, no-one can control their dreams - well, maybe the Elves, but no-one else. And there's no point in being ashamed of something you can't control. You might as well be ashamed by your, your, hair color, or your hat size, or, or, or your parents. You can be embarrassed by them - as none know better than I - but not ashamed." I hear Sam snort, and I know that we're both thinking of my last birthday party, and how my father and mother got tiddly and chased each other round the table, and then later (after snogging one another in full view of their horrified son and all his horrified guests), Da punched Uncle Merimac in the nose because he cut in front of him in the line for the water closet.

I echo Sam's snort and go on. "And for the second thing," that doesn't sound right but I'm sleepy and cross and I cannot think of what would sound right, "of course Frodo had a choice. We all had a choice. You _could_ have chosen not to come, and so could Pip and I, obviously, and if Frodo had just kept his bloody mouth shut at that buggered council we could all be sitting safe and cozy in Rivendell right this minute." I close my mouth with a snap.

There is a rustle of clothing (really this darkness does wonders for one's sense of hearing) and Sam is sitting up beside me again. "Really, Mr. Merry, you shouldn't use such language," he says, and this is the last thing I expected him to say. My mouth falls open, but before I can summon up a reply, he speaks again. "I don't know that you're right, but... I don't know that you're wrong either." He sighs. "I'll think on it, though."

I cannot think of anything to say, now, so I close my mouth (again) and sit still. Nothing changes: the endless mystery of Khazad-dum stretches on around us, silent and brooding and black. Gandalf's pipe glows like an eye, far off across this open space, and the breathing of Man, Elf, Dwarf, and Hobbit does not vary from its comforting pattern.

Still, something has changed, and I realize that it is something between Sam and me. I yawn, and hear him do the same, and then I reach out and touch his arm, just as he moves to lie down again. "I'm for bed, Sam," I say, and shift onto hands and knees to crawl back to my warm spot against Pippin.

"Aye, Mr. Merry," he says. "And... thank you. For waking me up, and for listening to me go on, and for, for... for saying what you said. I'm thinking on it."

"Anytime, Sam. Good night." Away I go, carefully avoiding bumping Frodo and Pippin's feet. My blankets are chilly, but I wrap myself up and scoot closer to Pippin (he puts off a surprising amount of heat for such a small creature, a fact I have been thankful for before), and sigh in contentment when he drapes one arm over me and nestles into my back.

In the darkness I hear Gandalf stand and begin to pace, very softly, though he comes no closer. I close my eyes (though really, who can tell the difference in this benighted hole?) and begin to drop off, feeling again that new and tenuous connection between Sam and me. I may comfort him again, or he may comfort me - whichever way it goes, I will be grateful to know him, and know him well.

 

~ _end_ ~


End file.
